The Arts of Winter
by The Sage of Ninshu
Summary: One day Jon wonders into the crypts of Winterfell to escape the stares and he ends up with more than he bargained for. The ensuing chaos leads to an Eddard with a different perspective of Honour and a Jon with a strange power, and the ambition to put it to use.
1. Chapter 1

**The Arts of Winter**

 **Disclaimer : I do not own a Song of Ice and Fire or any of the Associated characters.**

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JON

Jon descended the stairs of the dark, yet oddly warm tombs of Stark Lords and Kings - he had a bright lantern with flames of orange licking the edges. It always brought him solace to stand before their cold eyes. Some may find it odd, or name him a Masochist for seeking out the cold looks of his Stark ancestors. But Jon preferred their cold, hard looks opposed to the scornful and judgemental looks of the heart of the North, Winterfell.

He studied each of his recent ancestors carefully. His Uncle Brandon Stark, The former Heir of Winterfell. He was an impressive warrior, and Jon's younger brother, Bran's namesake.

Then there was his Aunt Lyanna Stark, the former betrothed to King Baratheon, and the former crowned Princes' Queen of Love and Beauty. She was kidnapped by Rhaegar Targaryen, his actions sparked a rebellion, which was fanned by the deaths of the Lord and Heir of Winterfell. And ultimately caused the death of the Targaryen dynasty, and the birth of the Baratheon dynasty.

Jon moved to the next statue, his Grandfather through his father, Lord Rickard Stark, the Northern Lord paramount was slayed, no executed alongside his Heir, leaving his second son Eddard Stark, a boy at the very heart of the rebellion as the Heir and Lord to Winterfell.

He continued his exploration until the came upon his great ancestor, the last King of winter, the last King in the North, Torrhen Stark.

Jon knew that it was getting late, but he couldn't bring himself to care in the slightest. Nobody else did. Except his father, Lord Stark of Winterfell.

Jon raised his lantern to the face of The-King-That-Knelt. The orange light was cast upon the solemn face of Torrhen Stark. He was in many ways, very much like Jon in appearance, but at the same time quite different. More like his Lord Father.

He studied the statue carefully before he happened upon odd writing on the hilt of the sword. It was quite odd, It's much like the symbols that adorn House Royce of Runestone. He rubbed his callused thumb over the engraved runes and tightened his grip around the pommel.

Suddenly Jon became unbalanced and was pulled towards the floor of the crypt, somehow pulling the sword with him as if it were the lever to a great castle gate. Then he was bathed in ethereal blue light, it enveloped his whole body, and he felt like he was being squeezed into a tunnel, that was much too small for the smallest of creatures, let alone himself.

He felt his gray eyes pop with his eardrums as his vision returned to him, the blue light that had enveloped him lit the chamber that so that he may see. Or mayhaps, the light had always illuminated the chamber with its cold, blue flames that levitated slightly above the wall-mounted torches. Torches of winter, Jon decided.

The young bastard of Winterfell took note of the stone chamber awash in blue light. It wasn't that noteworthy, it consisted of a solitary altar rimmed with blue light, between two statues, while another stood behind the altar. Becoming suspicious, Jon's gaze travelled around the chamber once more, there was really nothing else of note, besides the stone, it glowed a peculiar Amber in the seams of the stone, barely visible, but almost as if he was specifically attuned to the power that lay in the rocks, yet he was gazing through narrowed eyes.

He moved on from his contemplation of the rocks and their yellow light, and moved towards the altar, oddly enough, the closer he got, the further he was. "What sorcery is this?"

He kept moving, the altar and the statue shrunk, becoming as far away as the sun on the horizon. The air became thinner, and he became heavier, his muscles felt like hot knives were pulling them apart. He fell to his knees, yet something about the altar grasped him tightly, and refused to let go. He was reduced to a crawl as fog retreated from his maw, the cold numbed his face, yet he forced himself forward.

The further he crawled, the heavier he became, and colder he felt, the hot knives no longer hurt, for he could scarce feel his limbs. It was almost as though he was disjointed from the rest of his body, yet he remained aware of the biting cold as it sunk its teeth deep into his bones like a vile poison slowly gnawing at his very being.

Still, he pushed on, the blood of the North ran through his veins. They were hard, and so was he. The altar now seemed to become both closer and more further with every inch forward that he took.

With that thought, the altar was so close that Jon could touch it, quite literally, and just as he attempted to do so the cold crept in. Like a viper of Dorne crept down his spin and spat cold venom into his mind, halting his movements completely, there was no pushing himself forward, there was no positive thought left, only despair as cold crept through his very essence. Constricting everything good and swallowing it whole, when it ran out of good to consume, it came for the bad, coiling around it all, even his bitterness towards the Gods for cursing him with the name bastard, his resentment toward Lady Stark, his envy towards all his trueborn siblings, his self loathing for feeling this all. Jon was left an empty husk of what he once was, feeling absolutely nothing. Not his name, not his last name, he had nothing.

He laid there on the floor unable to feel, unable to move, he just laid there. Thoughts just seemed to freeze before they were formed. When the thoughts did occur they were of the sort that broke him, they were of a draining sort. Such as how long had he been laying there? Hours? Days? Or only a few minutes at most? Jon could not truly say. The cold was his only companion as his breath fogged and he breathed out clouds of despair like the great Dragons of old.

Then, his vision began to fail, at first it was only a slight blur, then it degraded more so, however the darkness that he expected to follow did not befall him, no. His vision was blank, and white, white as snow.

Snow.

Snow.

It was fleeting, but he felt like he found something. Snow, he thought. He felt his face unfreeze as expression returned to him. "Snow." his voice was as coarse as hard ice. "Snow, " he repeated much more sure of himself. "That's me, I'm Snow." said Snow. "Snow, Snow." he repeated, clinging on to it like the last string to his very being. "It's cold, Snow, it snows in Winter," he spoke to himself, feeling stronger the longer he clung to that feeling. "Winter. . .Winter. . .Winterfell. "

Jon's mind flickered through images, a grey direwolf on a white field. "The banner of the Starks, the Starks of Winterfell. Their Lord, Lord Stark." Snow felt an immense swell of pride. "Lord Eddard Stark, The Lord paramount of the North, and my Lord father. But he was a Snow, not a Stark. A Snow of Winterfell. Snow? That's a bastard name. That's me, the bastard of Winterfell. My name, Snow," Jon's voice burned through the ice, and his eyes flashed purple, it was only a moment, but it was enough to clear his vision. "Jon Snow! I'm Jon Snow of Winterfell! Son of Lord Eddard Stark! Blight to Lady Catelyn Stark, Brother to Robb Stark, and Sansa Stark - a prim and proper lady - brother to Arya Stark, Arya was his little fighter, he could feel his hand messing up her dark, birds nest of a head. Brother to Bran, Bran the climber. And little Rickon, he is but a babe, but a brother nonetheless. He is Jon Stark!

Jon opened his grey eyes, and he stood before the altar rimmed with winter fire. Two statues on either side. King Torrhen and Lord Torrhen, one crowned and the other kneeling. The one that knelt was solemn and regretful, while the King was Hard, and his eyes glowed with power, even though it was carved stone.

Behind the Altar stood a statue very much like Jon, except he had Robb's build. At his side he held a Hammer with engraved runes. Both of his arms were thick with muscle, with runes carved along each arm, amber barely visible, glowed with power.

"Is that Bran, the builder?" Jon asked, he wasn't sure, it fit the songs to be sure.

He turned his attention to the raised dais on the altar, it's rim glowed with winter fire. A book laid upon it. Ice blue embroided with silver.

The Arts of Winter, by The Kings of Winter

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Eddard

Eddard Stark rubbed his eyes tiredly, then he flexed his pained hands, rolled them around and finally interlaced them and cracked his knuckles with sequential pops. His face remained neutral through the whole ordeal.

Sometimes, not often, but sometimes Ned cursed his Lord father for his folly. King Aerys was burning the most innocent of folk, and they were mad enough to make demands of a King so deranged, he was called the Mad King. As a rule Targaryens were ailed with some form of madness, and they were mad, no doubt about. The Maesters were of the notion that it was their inbreeding, between brother and sister no less, that caused the madness that was so prevalent amongst the most sane of Targaryens. The Mad King, Aerys, was a culmination of bad blood. It was conjecture to be sure, but Ned could not deny the evidence, even if the cause is mayhaps something else entirely.

Still, the fault lay not with them, but with honour. And he knew all about honour. Oh Jon, oh sweet Jon, Ned thought piteously. The life that Jon had been subjected to was hardly fair on him, and it's all because of the subject of his birth. The poor boy is treated like trash by the vast majority of Winterfell and it was all Catelyn fault. It was not any illogical fault of hers to be sure. She did as any mother would, she did what she did to protect her children.

The Blackfyre's, the Greystarks, and the war of the ninepenny Kings was cause enough to fear bastard born children. They had a history of usurping their trueborn kin.

The Stark patriarch returned to his work, only to be interrupted once more by a knock on the door. He sighed, before giving his visitor permission to enter.

"Arya, what is the reason for this visit?" asked Ned, his gray eyes silently surveying his distressed daughter, on occasion it pained him to look at his daughter, she had Lyanna's look, it was painful to be sure, but he moved past it. "What troubles you Arya? "

"It's Jon." said Arya, sounding decidedly troubled.

"Jon? What about him?" asked Ned in confusion, Jon wasn't the type to be horrible, least of all to Arya. He shared a bond with her that none of her fellow siblings could boast.

"His missing father!" she exclaimed, "I haven't seen him for two days. I've asked around, but Ser Rodrik has said that he hasn't been in the sword yard, or the at the dinning hall, and Robb has been to his chambers, but Jon wasn't there either."

Ned sat at his desk in silent contemplation. He let the information sink in. During Roberts Rebellion he was called the quiet wolf for his excellent poise in the face of troubling news, and in the same breath he concocted a sound strategem that led to the victory of numerous battles. At the current point in time, his mind failed to create such strategies and all he could utter was, "Jon's gone?"

"But, you will find him father?" asked Arya.

"Arya! It's time you went to bed. What exactly are you doing here?"

It was Catelyn, "It's quite alright, my lady," said Ned, "Arya has just informed me of something quite troubling."

"What is it?" asked Catelyn, becoming quite concerned.

"Jon's gone!" exclaimed Arya.

Catelyn tutted at her unladylike manner, it was almost in reflex at this point. "What do you mean the bastard is gone?"

"She means that my son has not been sighted in something like two days." Ned said, his voice devoid of emotion, but to Catelyn it told her all she needed to know, he could see it in her eyes.

"I knew that the bastard would be trouble." she pursed her lips.

Ned ignored her, and rose from his desk he shrugged on his dark furs and strode out of his solar. At his door stood his two guardsmen. "Alyn, get me Jory Cassel." then he turned to Desmond, "Desmond, get me Farlen and Hullen, tell them it's urgent that they meet with me in Jon's chambers."

"As you say, m'lord." they said before leaving to fulfill their duties.

Ned, was off in his own direction, Arya and Catelyn were close behind him. "Is this really necessary, my Lord." asked Catelyn, "This is clearly a call for attention."

"Even if this is the case - and I doubt it is - it is my duty as his Lord father to answer that call. He may be lying dead in the wolfswood for all I know." said Ned, then he was reminded that Arya was still amongst them. "It is my duty to find my son, and nothing will stop me."

"Father?" Arya said hesitantly.

"Yes, Arya?"

"Can I go pray in the godswood? I - I can't lose Jon." said Arya, sounding half afraid, despite her wilful ways, she was only seven namedays old.

Ned gave her a gentle smile, "We will go together."

It took all she had not to run into her father's arms, Ned could see that, and was proud. He turned his attention to the door of Jon's chamber, he opened the door and glanced around the room, analysing each corner before he allowed his lady wife and daughter way to enter the chamber.

Catelyn sniffed the room in distaste. There was nothing at glance that was wrong with the room, the chamber pot was empty, and clean, his feather bed was neatly made, and the chamber was neat and organised in general. It would not be appraising if Jon were his trueborn child, but he insisted on cleaning his own room, as befitting of his rank. Ned took the time to carefully analyze the chamber once more, he could find nothing that explained why he was gone, how long it had been since he was here or where he went.

"It's dusty, father."

Ned gave her dust ridden finger a focused look. "So, it is."

"But, don't the servants clean Jon's room?" asked Arya, truly surprised.

"No, he requested that he clean his own chamber, as befitting of his station." said Ned.

"Evidently, the bastard is true to his name, and he has not cleaned his room." said Catelyn scornfully, her nose twitching in distaste, detecting an odour that was not to be found.

"No, my lady, Jon was quite meticulous. It has certainly been two days, maybe more since Jon was in the room. As you can see, ours is the only footprints in the room." said Ned, glancing around the room once more, he strode to the drawers and pulled them open, one by one. Going through each neatly packed article of clothing. "It is clear that if he did leave, it was not voluntarily and it's been a number of days since he was here, to be sure. We will only know more once Jory arrives and Farlen sets his hounds to work. Mayhaps Hullen will shed some light on the situation, but I very much doubt it."

At that moment there was a knock at the door. "You may enter."

It was Jory Cassel, the nephew of their resident Master-at-Arms, and the captain of his guard.

"My Lord, you have summoned me?" said Jory.

"Yes, but the reason needs wait until all is in attendance." said Ned.

It was only a few minutes longer and they were joined by Farlen and Hullen; The Masters of Horse and Kennel. "My son, Jon has gone missing, how long I cannot be sure, and where he went, I'm even less sure of that. All I can tell is that it's been at least two days since his departure, and it was not planned - not by him." said Ned, he allowed the information to wash over the three before he continued. "Jory, have any of your guards reported anything relating to Jon? Anything relating to his departure?"

"No, my Lord, but I will question my guards." answered Jory.

"Very good Jory, if you fail to receive any information regarding my son or any suspicious activity at the gates or any of the exists, I ask that you question as many as you will, and search for him, keep it confined to Winterfell."

"At once, my lord." Jory left at a brisk pace.

"Hullen, have any of your stable boys reported any horse that were taken and not returned, and for that matter, has there been any sight of Jon?" asked Ned.

"Nay, m'lord." Hullen shook his head. "My boys ain't seen anybody. Mayhaps Hodor saw him, doesn't help us any, does it? I will ask those boys, but your son hasn't been around my stables."

Ned nodded, and gave him leave. "Farlen, would you take Jon's furs, sheets and pillows. It may be useful for your hounds."

"As you say m'lord." said Farlen, before removing Jon's bedding and leaving the chamber. Ned paced the room in silence.

"Father, are they going to find Jon? What if something happened to him?" asked Arya, near tears.

Ned's heart went out to her. "Come, we will pray before the Heart tree." said Ned, then he turned to Catelyn. "My love, you may pray before the seven or tend to the children if need be. Your presence is not required."

"As you say, My lord." said Catelyn, her blue eyes piercing his, and she swept out of the room.

He soon followed her, but took off in a different direction, Arya trailing close behind. it wasn't much longer before they entered the godswood, Arya was silent as she walked through the godswood, her gaze jumped from this side, to that. It was to be expected, as this was her first forage into the Godswood. "Father, why do we not pray in the godswood all the time."

"Nobody is stopping you." said Ned, half-amused.

"But mother makes us pray in the Sept of the Seven." said Arya.

"Your mother and I agreed that she would educate all of you in the ways of the seven. I allowed it because it was the right decision at the time." said Ned, thinking back to the forced marriage. It always comes down to ambition; "But, if you wish to worship the old gods, you may join me. Traditionally Stark worship the old gods as our forebears did."

As Arya was about to answer, they came upon the Weirwood tree, and Arya was a loss for words. The tree was alabaster, with facial features carved into the trunk, long and melancholy, with eyes of blood red sap that stood out against the stark tree. Above, it had crimson leaves with five points; like hands reaching for the sky.

It didn't matter how frequently Ned visited the heart tree, he was always startled by the morbid beauty that the heart tree provided. And Arya was experiencing it for the first time. Of all the reactions, he never suspected that she would fall to her knobby knees, and bow to the watchful eyes of the heart tree, her eyes focused to the ground in submission.

"Old gods, I don't know how this works, but please, wherever you are, please bring Jon back home." said Arya, her voice twisting in obvious pain, the soft pitter-patter of water could be heard impacting the forest floor, as tears leaked from her eyes. "I want him muss up my hair, and I want to finish his words and him to finish mine. I just want my brother back, because I love him."

Ned was astounded, his heart lurched as he was suddenly reminded of Lyanna. At every turn; he thought. Ned went to one knee and rubbed her back reassuringly, and Arya turned around and encircled her arms around his neck, and buried her face into the crook of his neck, sobbing without pause.

"We will find Jon, on my honour we will find Jon." said Ned with Icy steel resolve.

However, Arya had ceased her sobbing, and had seemingly relaxed into his arms, and Ned smiled. It is quite late, and she has exhausted herself to be sure; thought Ned, as he got up.

He silently stared at the heart tree. I will find Jon, I made a promise; he silently vowed before turning swiftly and leaving through the godswood. Passing the sentinel trees, and the old Oaks, and the sturdy Ironwoods as he walked carefully down the path, not worried at all about safety, the Old gods would protect them.

As he left the confines of the godswood, he was approached by Farlen. "What news do you have?" asked Ned.

"We found him m'lord." said Farlen. "There isn't too much good to be found."

"His. . .dead?" asked Ned, suddenly feeling weak. "Where? How?"

"No, m'lord, not yet." said Farlen. "We found him at the doors of the Stark Crypts. He wasn't in a good way m'lord. We took him to Maester Luwin."

"Take me there," said Ned, sounding like ice.

"As you say." said Farlen.

When Ned was brought before Jon, he was all too painfully reminded of Lyanna in the mountains of Dorne. He had put Arya down to sleep in a chair beside Jon's bed. Oh Jon, No; thought Ned while taking note of how Jon's once beautiful brown curls had lost their lustre, and how gaunt and pale his face had become. He pressed his fingers to Jon's neck, his pulse was weak.

Sending more flashes of Lyanna's death to the forefront of his mind. He held Jon's hand firmly, I promised, I promised, on my honour I promised and for what? What are they good for? What good is my honour if I break it so?

Ned's face twisted, growing much longer, and the Stark melancholy became much more prominent. Before he could berate himself anymore the door was pushed open, and Ned's family came filing in the room. They were all led by Robb, even Theon made an effort.

Catelyn was behind them all holding Rickon. "I don't know what this is all about. But obviously the bastard is fi-" said Catelyn, before catching the look on Ned's face and then the sight of Jon, her eyes widened, then she said, "Robb insisted that we be here, as soon as he got word of Jon."

"What's wrong with Jon? I saw him only two days past and he was fine." said Sansa visibly startled.

"What's wrong with Jon?" asked Bran confused.

Even Catelyn seemed to be giving him an expectant look. And he had no answer for them. He wasn't a Maester, he could hardly tell them what was wrong with Jon, though he could guess. He was saved from answering when Maester Luwin entered the room.

"Jon is sick, very sick." said Maester Luwin, much to the Stark children's dismay. "He has not eaten in very many days, and his symptoms are synonymous with prolonged exposure to the cold. Although he has gotten over the worst of the ordeal - and I do mean the very worst of symptoms - he still has a arduous recovery ahead of him."

"So Jon is going to be fine?" asked Robb, sounding relieved.

"Yes, I do believe it will not be too long before he joins you in the sword yard." said Maester Luwin reassuringly.

"Now that we know that Snow will be alright, it's time for bed, and no Arya, pretending to sleep will not help you." said Catelyn as her piercing blue gaze fell on Arya.

"But I want to stay with Jon!" exclaimed Arya, her gray eyes burning with determination.

"Your mother is right Arya, you need to get some rest and leave your brother in Maester Luwin's capable hands." said Ned.

"But father-" Arya protested.

"I have spoken." said Ned sternly, brokering no room for argument.

His family left Maester Luwin and himself in the room after they each gave Jon a kiss, with the exclusion of Catelyn and Rickon. "Tell me true, will Jon's recovery be as clear cut as you say?"

"No, what I said was to put the anxiety of your children at ease. If I'm telling it true, Jon is lucky to be alive, and I cannot be sure when Jon will make a recovery." said Maester Luwin.

Ned sighed, before settling into the chair Arya had occupied, "If there is nothing else, I would like some time alone with my son."

"As you say, my lord." said Maester Luwin.

When Ned was finally alone he allowed his tears to fall freely from his eyes. His grey eyes were stormy as any Baratheon. "Jon," he whispered, "Just what is my honour good for if I couldn't protect you?"

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 **A/N: so this is my first, a Song of Ice and Fire fiction, any suggestions or questions feel free to hit me up. Any notes? I know it wasn't exactly a long chapter, but I'm only getting into it, so the chapter size should increase.**


	2. Chapter 2

Disclaimer: I do not own aSoIaF

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Catelyn

She had never seen her lord husband like this. She yearned for his touch, he was dutiful to be sure, and he attended to her in a way that no man could. Just the thought of it made her nipples harden, and her nether lips became moist.

Ned had been with Snow whenever he wasn't managing the house, or breaking his fast. She had visited the bastard when Ned was, or when her children did, or when Maester Luwin was attending to the boy. She visited him herself, and over the past moon turn he recovered considerably, but he had yet to wake.

She had even visited the Sept of the Seven, and prayed for his wellness. Although it was not without influence. She felt a cold internal guilt, it was the day she confronted Ned.

"Ned," said Catelyn, she addressed him in his solar, he had not so much as glanced in her direction. He had been this way as soon as his bastard showed signs of recovery. "you cannot hole yourself inside your solar, and beside the bastard, you have a family to care for, you have a castle to manage, you have the north to manage. "

"In due time." said Ned, not bothering to grace her with a glance.

"Ned you cannot allow the realm to suffer over a bastard!" exclaimed Catelyn, throwing all courtesy out of the window.

"He is not." said Ned, for the first time looking up at her, his grey eyes were smouldering.

"What?" she asked, rage present on her face.

"I was married to his mother during his conception. In all rights he should be my heir, however I was forced to annul my marriage to her at the behest of your father, or his armies would not join our own, not only that;" said Ned, his face long, "no, his army would join with the crowned prince Rhaegar."

Catelyn suddenly felt empty, she knew that her marriage was a political one. First Brandon, then Ned, and if he failed to survive the rebellion, then it would be Benjen. "Surely my father knew you were with a child, he would not have insisted if he knew that you were with child."

Ned chuckled without humour, it was a hollow laugh that Catelyn couldn't say she had come accustomed to. "Your father was an ambitious man. He told me that the agreement with lord Rickard — my lord father, quite the ambitious man himself, had died not even a moon past and your father was speaking of promises between himself and my father, a promise that his daughter and my father's heir would marry and sire the next heir of Winterfell, well if one brother wasn't enough, then I would be. He forced me to annul my marriage and disinherit or claim my child was a bastard. That was exactly what I did for my sisters sake. I have come to accept that this is what my sweet boy shall be known as; a bastard." he finished with contempt.

"I - I didn't know. " she said at a loss for words.

"No, you did not. And it was my fault that you remained ignorant. This was ill done. Do you know the consequences of calling Jon a bastard? In front of your people?" Ned looked to her, his tone grave, "Your people begin to treat those you view as your enemies in a worse light than you do.

"Their loyalty is yours to command. No matter how much I believe it is no fault of yours, I cannot truly say that Jon's condition is no fault of yours. It is not the for the first time that he visited the crypts to escape the harsh looks of Winterfell. This is all consequence of your own actions. However the blame falls with mel. I realise that now, I wanted to pretend that Jon was not a bastard, that he was my trueborn son, but I know now that it is not to be. And I must take all blame, all your blame, all the blame of Winterfell, I must take the blame of the North." said Ned, his face long and solemn.

"I'm sorry." Catelyn said as last, "I did not mean -"

"No, you did, and I can scarcely blame you. You seek to protect your children from wrath of a bastard. You grew up with the fear of the bastard-born, your own uncle took part in a war caused by bastards. No, I cannot lay blame with you, not truly. I only ask that you refrain from naming him bastard while in the presence of the smallfolk, and our bannermen."

"I will try, my lord." said Catelyn, there was nothing else to say. Not for the first time was she the cause placing the bastard in a life threatening situation. No, his name is Snow; she reminded herself. It was no better than bastard, to be sure, however it was a start.

"I don't mean to sound harsh my lady, but all my children mean a great deal to me, and even if I can't always be there. You have my apologies for my past behavior, I should of handled myself better. However I am in midst of forging plans to rectify my past mistakes." said Ned, his shoulders seemed looser, and his face was slightly more at ease; although it was still long. "I don't take your meaning, my lord."

"Do not worry, my love, Robb is still my heir, and Brandon after him, and Rickon following that; though I am loathe to even consider the requirement, but if anything happens to the boys then Sansa, and failing her Arya will inherit the ancestral seat of the Starks. However, Jon will never inherit the seat of the Starks, just as the Karstarks will inherit long before him, and every nobleman with strong blood of the first men will objectify before any baseborn child will."

A large part of Catelyn was placed at ease by her husband's words. It did not eliminate a lifetime of fear, but it certainly put her at ease to know that her lord husband was not actively working to have his bastard ahead of his trueborn children. In fact he was adamant that Jon would not sit in the chair of Kings from a forgotten age.

That, put her at ease. Her fears only rested with Snow's own children, she knew deep down that Jon would not seek to usurp the ancestral seat of his half-brothers and sisters, not as he was now. He was as honorable as his father in many ways.

Another voice seemed to speak to her, that's why you despised him, he is so much like Ned, he had his look and his ways, you feared some may say that your children were not fathered by him. They had the look of a Tully. You feared that the lords and their ladies would proclaim that your children were fathered by some traveling singer, for the children to have taken on the look of the mother, they could of only been fathered by a man of the common ilk; it seemed to fiercely whisper to her.

She shrugged the voice from her head, and said, "You have my thanks, my lor - my love."

She left her husband to his work, and she came before her quaint Sept of the Seven, she breathed in deeply, as she smelled the seven scented incense, the smell was varying, it was sweet, earthy, acrid, tart, and perfumed all at once. She sighed in bliss as she inhaled the ever familiar smell of the Sept.

She felt safe, she felt like she was bathing in the power of her God. The father was a great man, that wore a beard. Catelyn palmed a rod of wood and and pushed it into the flames of a candle that was no doubt lit by Septon Chayle. She lit another candle and watched as the flame bloomed from a bud into a flower before snuffing the flame of her fire stick with a flick of her wrist.

Catelyn respectively bowed her head, and prayed silently, Father, I pray that you defend Jon Snow in the battle for his life; she said internally.

She repeated her actions as she came before the feminine figure, her features soft and motherly. Mother above, I pray that you protect Jon Snow in his struggles to recover, and give him the care of the mother where his own cannot; she prayed.

The mother, she had always been her favorite aspect of her God, she represented her mother, she represented what she had become, she represented the gift of children, the gift that she had received. She was grateful for the mothers gifts and apologized for breaking her word.

She moved to the next aspect, he was in some ways similar to the father, except he was clean shaven, with neat cut hair, his muscles were tightly corded, and it seemed to suggest that he was remarkably strong, yet at the same time capable of some lithe manoeuvres. He carried a long sword as well. Although none of these aspects truly spoke of the warrior, not to Catelyn. No, it was his eyes. They seemed to emanate a steely resolve and the diligence to follow through.

She lit the candle, and bowed her head, Oh, Warrior I ask that you protect Jon Snow in his endeavor to fight what threatens him, may you give him the strength and the resolve he must need; she prayed.

The next aspect was much like the warrior, only, he was rugged and great of arm, with eyes of burning diligence and a hammer in hand. She lit the candle and bowed her head, Smith I ask that you grant Jon Snow strength and when he awakes he will be forged anew; prayed Catelyn.

Catelyn moved to the innocent Maiden, she was young and beautiful, and had the look of a young Catelyn, and a young Lysa, and a young Sansa. She lit a candle, Dear Maiden, I ask that you grant forgiveness to me. I know I broke an agreement, however what I asked was for my husbands regard, not mine, deep down what I said, was not truly what I felt. All I ask is forgiveness of the Seven if it is within you to grant it; she prayed with more vigor than she had ever.

Once she had collected herself from the emotion of her prayer she moved to the next aspect, an old woman, with wispy would-be silver hair, and eyes that gleamed with sharp wit. In her hand she held the lamp to light the way. Catelyn lit a candle, Crone, I pray that you light Jon Snows recovery, I pray that you give Maester Luwin the wisdom to heal him, and I pray that I too gain wisdom, so that I may treat Jon Snow with wisdom and thought; she prayed.

She moved to the last of the seven, not much could be seen, the figure wore a hooded cloak, on one side light was cast within the hood, and on the other side shadows and darkness, the face could not be made out on either end. Stranger, I ask that you halt the hand of death and protect Jon Snow from the darkness. If this is impossible, I pray that it is a peaceful affair and he does not suffer; she prayed after lighting the last candle.

This time around Catelyn insured that she made no promises that she had not intended to honor. She only wished for his wellness, it was almost twelve years ago when she hoped he may die of the pox, but she soon regretted it, and instead prayed that the seven would heal him, and if they did she would ask Ned to legitimize him, and she would be the mother that he lacked. However, she couldn't find it in her heart to attempt any of what she promised.

She could see now, that Ned was right. Her actions had a direct impact on how Snow was treated by the rest of Winterfell. At first it wasn't directly visible, but still she could recall the way they seemed to look at Snow, and she knew she was partly to blame.

At first she was wary of Winterfell, and was quite the outsider, but she soon became as much a part of the North as her very own lord husband. She became greatly respected by her fellow lords and ladies for her wit, and graceful courtesies befitting a lady of her station. She was respected amongst the small folk as well, and it only grew when they witnessed the fact that she allowed Jon Snow — her husband's bastard — to remain within the castle of Winterfell. Her reputation was further cemented by the fact that she allowed Jon Snow to dine with the Starks, like he was part of the family, it made it seem as though she regarded him as family despite him being the symbol of Ned Stark's dishonour. Not only his dishonor, but his dishonor to Catelyn, and Ned was highly regarded for his honor, as a ward of Jon Arryn, and the words of house Arryn were: As High As Honor.

She could see now, she could see how her behavior towards Jon Snow within sight of the smallfolk and the other lords and ladies of the North could affect their opinions of Snow. She had a reputation for being a lady of courtesy, and anyone who drawed enough of her ire for her to forget her courtesies, must have acted in a way that was deserving of her ire. They obviously did something — or that is the assumption.

The sad truth is Jon hadn't done anything to Catelyn, save his status as her husband's bastard. And subconsciously the property of Winterfell felt that he was a dark mark on Winterfell, he wasn't treated badly, but he did receive looks. And at face, they were only looks, but as an intelligent child — which she knew he was — Jon could decipher the underlying reason for the looks.

She could feel the guilt settle in the pit of her stomach like painful fire that froze instead of burned. Jon, was in his current state because of her. Maybe not directly, but she still felt she was responsible.

Catelyn pushed her sour thoughts from her mind, it served no purpose. What was done, could not be undone, and she had a responsibility to her family. She could not let her self-chastisement hinder her duty.

Catelyn's stormy mind was abated when she was greeted by the smallfolk of Winterfell. From Mikken, to Gage and even sweet, simple-minded Hodor, a stable boy who's true name was Walder.

Sometimes walking around Winterfell calmed her, and sometimes it riled up her mind something fierce. Thankfully it calmed her this day, just to walk amongst her people filled her with serenity she couldn't quite place.

As, she absorbed the quiet beauty of her second home, she took note of a small figure scaling the walls of the buildings in Winterfell, their target seemed to be the rookery, the figure had her coloring. It's bran; she decided.

"Bran!" the figure seemed to pause, "Brandon Stark! You get down from there this instant!" exclaimed Catelyn, and the figure finally heeded her command.

When Bran finally climbed down, he approached her with a face flushed in guilt. "I thought I told you I don't like you climbing? What if you fall? And don't tell me you won't."

"But it's true mother, I don't fall. Father says that I was climbing before I was crawling." said Bran.

"Your father speaks it true." Catelyn allowed, "But your father has also told me that Jon knows the Crypts of Winterfell well, and look what happened to him. He has been bedridden for a moons turn, not even waking once."

Bran looked down sadly, "I'm sorry mother, it's just. . .climbing its me, it's on my mind all the time, I know nothing else."

Catelyn knelt down, and kissed Bran on his brow. "I know sweet child," said Catelyn, "but think of your father, he came truly close to losing Jon. What do you think would happen to me? And yes maybe you won't fall, but what if it was not in your power? Would you truly do that to your family? Do you want to hurt us all?"

"No, mother." said Bran, his face contorting to one of pain, Catelyn began to feel guilty, but then she thought of Snow, lying in bed without waking, for a full turn of the moon. Then she replaced Snow with her son Bran, and she internally shuddered. She brushed her sons excuses away like warmth in winter.

"No, Bran." Catelyn shook her head firmly, "I forbid you, if I, or anyone else finds you climbing, or if we find out that you were climbing, you will be confined to your room, and from now on, your room will be barred -"

"But mother -"

"No, Bran!" she said sharply, Bran's face fell, and she felt a sick twist in her gut, but she was resolute in protecting her children from the same fate as Jon Snow. "I promise you that anytime you are found climbing in or around Winterfell, you will be punished. On my word I will punish you." and I would get a man or woman to tail Bran everyday, I will not allow any harm to come to my children; thought Catelyn.

Catelyn was startled out of her thoughts, when Arya rushed past, her jet black hair whipping in the wind. "Arya! Just where are you going? You should be with Septa Mordane."

Arya stopped for a moment, her face was bright and grinning widely. "Jon is awake!"

Much too Catelyn's surprise, she felt a great weight lift from and shoulders, and not only that, but to her great surprise she felt a single tear trailing down her cheek, sending an odd sensation throughout her entire body. Just what is going on? I do not feel anything for Snow; she thought furiously, but she could not deny the great feeling of relief at the news.

* * *

Jon

The blue fire danced within his eyes as he delicately opened the cover of the book. The cover of the book had thick parchment on the inside, a letter was written with fine emerald ink, it possessed a border of scarlet, with runic symbols Jon could barely begin to decipher inlaid into it.

The letter read: Greetings, I am Lord Torrhen Stark, the former King in the North, before I knelt to Aegon Targaryen and his dragons. If you are reading this then you are one of two individuals; however it is more than likely the latter of those. You are either a King in the North, or a King of Winter.

I assume it is the latter, because Aegon and his dragons were a deadly foe, and it would be great folly to assume that his legacy of dragons stopped with him.

If you are confused, The King of Winter is awarded to the individual who has defeated, or conquered Winter. In the beginning the term was dubbed The Kin of Winter, but after many years, every woman that attempted to conquer Winter, through the trial of Winters Art in Winterfell, and the trial of Winters throne in the land of always winter have failed.

I, and many of Kings and Kin's before me have arrived at the conclusion that because woman carry children, they will directly inherit the Arts of Winter or the Gift of Winter. I on the other hand assumed, something much more sinister. I think the Woman Kin of Winter will birth the dark ones, more powerful than the Night's fiends the spawn threatens to surpass even the dark gods themselves, so they laid ancient magics into the foundations of the North and the land of always winter to stop woman from obtaining the power.

In truth, it may sound like some tale told to you by your wet-nurse, but I have studied it relentlessly. This is possibly the reason why I could not stand against the Targaryen and their Dragons, and given a few years I may have found the power I needed. However, I lost the Gift and the Art of Winter the day I bent the knee.

As a King in the North, I, Inherited my power from my father before me, however this power was not earned, in the same way the Gift of Winter is earned. The gift of Winter is attained after conquering Winter and can not be lost. However the Art of Winter is inherited by the King in the North, and his successor, however if a King in the North ever bends the Knee they will lose their power, it's a slow process, but within a year their power will cease.

Inside this book you will find all the information on magic that I, and many of the Kings before me have created, our magic is not overmuch different from those of Valryia, you will soon find. It will take many years of studying this book, and yourself to put the power to use, but I have faith in who you are.

You are not any King of Winter, but you are also a Stark by blood, that much I am sure of. While the blood of the First Men gives us the power to Warg, the Stark's possessed a stronger blood. Their blood carried a power that was much like Targaryens of Valyria. Magic flowed through their veins and acted a conduit for greater magics, and as a King of Winter you are capable of much greater magic than any lone King of Winter or King in the North — Although Lord in the North seems more apt — could ever hope to possess.

I wish you well,

Lord Torrhen Stark

Jon was a loss for words, how could any of this be real? He asked himself. It is truly something from old Nan's tales; he told himself. Then he looked to the blue fire that eliminated the entire chamber, the winter fire that rimmed the altar was not warm, nor was it cold, but Jon could certainly feel that there was something about the fire that was out of place.

Then there was the glowing amber runes that was littered upon the arms of Brandon Stark, and the hints of amber in the seams of the stones in the azure lit chamber. It all seemed to point to magic. Unless this was some mummers farce, or great jape by the Stark's, a hazing if you will.

Still, it didn't explain how he got into the chamber, the blue fire, or Winter fire, as Jon named it. It didn't explain the cold, the paralysis, or numbing of his mind to the point of forgetting himself and all he was. It didn't explain the illusions that he saw. The only explanation was magic. It is magic; he decided somewhat uncertainly.

Jon took a breath, and flipped through the pages, there were symbols inscribed into the other pages, with faded emerald ink, that seemed to be superimposed by a golden sheen, and the letters shifted into a tongue he could read, the common tongue of Westeros.

He read: this is an instruction manual, to whomever would read, and possesses the gift of Winter, even if you do not speak the tongue it was scribed in, I have set spells herein that will change it to a tongue you can comprehend. Brandon Stark, Winter's King.

Jon closed the book, and suddenly, he was covered in a bright Azure light, and he felt as if he was being forced through a tunnel that was much too tight for him to fit into, he felt his eyes and ears pop and his vision went white, before they popped again and a multitude of blue spots encompassed his vision, after sometime they faded and he was only left with darkness.

Jon could not discern that his hand was in front of his face, even though knew it was there.

"Where is the book?" he asked himself, his tone was coloured with panic. He patted himself down, until he found a small bulge at the hem of his trousers. He pulled it out and felt it blindly, and he sighed in relief. The book is safe; he sighed in relief.

Jon tried to push himself off the floor, but was suddenly taken over an extreme state of dizziness, white spots taking over his vision, as it mingled with the darkness. He put his hands to his head, grasping it, massaging it, trying to soothe the sharp pain that bounced around his head like a mad man swinging a morning star about like his plaything.

Jon slipped the book back into the hem of his trousers, and felt around the crypts, trying to find the wall. His head had soothed into a dull throb, he felt around the stone floor, it was deathly cold — yet it was oddly comforting — and rough, so rough that he grazed his palms. He hissed in pain, but continued to run his hands across the ground, this time he was much more careful.

He soon found the flat surface of wall. He propped himself up, his head spiking with pain, and he leaned against the wall. He breathed deeply, trying to gain some measure of strength.

"What happened? Why do I feel this way? " he asked himself, his voice came out a raspy, hiss.

What is happening? Jon asked himself, I was fine while I was in that chamber, but now my head feels as if an axe has split it into two as it would firewood.

Jon rubbed his temple with his one hand and balanced himself with his other. After a moment he set out in the opposite direction, he hoped that he was going in the right direction. His eyes had seemed to become accustomed to the darkness of the Crypts. He could make out general shapes now, not that it helped overmuch, the Stark's were too similar for their own good, and indeed Jon's good.

Jon's arms burned with fire, and his legs cracked with pain. His stomach burned with an unquenchable hunger. He grimaced in pain, he tried to bite his lip to conceal the hiss of pain that threatened to burst forth.

"Uhhhh!" exclaimed Jon, as his teeth sunk into his dry, cracking lips.

"What's going on?" Jon asked himself, his voice rough as stone. "There was nothing wrong with me in chamber of Winter."

Jon pushed on nevertheless, he knew if he stopped he would not move again. It was just like the trial of winter. He wasn't sure if he would survive this time.

Jon kept to the wall, ensuring that he followed the same direction as much as he could, that way if he ended up at the wrong end he could backtrack and begin again from the previous point. He hoped that wasn't the case.

The wall was both a comfort, and a foe for Jon. It was his only means to navigate the dark halls of the Stark' Crypts, however it served to cut up his palm on the same vein. They were small, true, but they stung just the same.

Apart from his grazed and cut palms, Jon's journey forward went without incident. Besides, falling into stairs, and possibly cracking a rib. Stairs? Jon asked himself, surprised and elated enough to forget his injuries for the moment.

The stairs ascended, that was good. This is the way out; he told himself, as he pushed himself off the hard edges of the stairs.

Jon hissed in pain, as his injuries returned, reminding him of their presence. He wasn't in a welcoming mood. Despite their unwanted presence he ascended the stairs, bumping into the wall, and stumbling, slipping and falling.

Despite his familiarity with the crypts Jon had never made the journey in darkness. His new scrapes and bruises were evidence of that fact. He was too close now, he wouldn't give in to despair, so he crawled, every so often knocking his head into the winding walls of the stairs as he made his ascent.

I must look a grape under my clothes; Jon thought, as he felt his body ache from scrapes, cuts, bruises and the agony of exhaustion. He didn't have much left, he could feel his eyes becoming heavy, he only had a little push left.

He crawled forward, not having the strength to rise to his feet; but hid head impacted a wall, by now he had become accustomed to the pain, fortunately he wasn't going overly fast. He pushed his hand to right, finding more wall, and to left, finding wall once more.

I'm at the top; thought Jon elated, "I'm at the t-top." he now said, his was weak, and raw, but he didn't care, he was saved. Thank the gods.

Jon heaved forward, and there was a loud lurch, and Jon felt the crisp air of Winterfell brush against his face, almost tenderly. He saw the light of the stars, and heard the barking of dogs, before all he knew was darkness.

After sometime Jon found himself waking, it was cold, and he was wrapped in the thickest furs imaginable. He also had cloth over his mouth and nose; protecting most of his lower face from elements. It was thick with frost. He was on horseback or so he assumed, until he saw the branch like horns that extended from the animals head, and the lack of mane. An elk? Jon asked himself in surprise, that wasn't something that he had become accustomed to.

He paid closer attention to his surroundings, most of his vision was obscured by a blanket of white snow. Although, he could make out an indiscernible shape, it seemed to be a castle, with high towers, as small as the sun on the horizon.

The trek to the castle was slow, there were hills, and frozen lakes that they had to go around, and forests so thick that there was truly no space for Jon and sentinel — he named his Elk, Sentinel for his great branch-like horns, that seemed to be as sturdy as steel — to walk through the dense foliage.

Many nights and days had passed, but Sentinel never stopped, Jon fell asleep on a number of occasions during their journey. Oddly he hadn't required to eat or drink anything, yet he felt stronger than he had ever been. The high towers of the castle seemed to become bigger, so Jon, figured that they were certainly growing closer to the castle, and somehow he felt as if this was their target.

The deeper they journeyed, the more creatures Jon seemed to notice, of course there were always ravens — they were everywhere — that seemed to watch him with a keen intelligence that few humans could boast.

He passed shadow cats, they were dark as midnight with stripes as white as snow, with powerful legs and jaws, with teeth as sharp as knives, and fur thick enough to keep them warm in a place as eternally cold as this. They were deceptively fast and agile considering their size, but, they never attacked Jon and Sentinel. On occasion they would saunter past the two, and Jon would run his hand through their fur. It was oddly soft — Jon thought that it would be more coarse. And the creatures would purr in response to his touch.

He even spied a herd of mammoths, they were thick with fur, with the girth of a boulder, supported by legs as thick as tree trunks, with a great trunk between two tusks as long as the branches of a tree, with the thickness of a young tree.

But . . .by far the oddest creatures that he saw were the people — if they could be called such. They wore rags with more holes than fabric — it was more akin to a fisherman's net than actual clothing. Underneath their "clothes" their skin was Grey and discolored, with open holes from rot, and broken ribs that could be plainly seen. Most of the organs were rotted to the extent complete destruction, while the ones that remained were old, grey and shriveled up. Jon had seen dead bodies before, some rotting, and others fresh, so while it was disturbing, it was nothing he hadn't seen before. But the eyes. . .they burned with an icy blue fire. This wasn't like the winter fire in the Stark Crypts. No, it was much more sinister, it was was much darker.

The few animated corpses that Jon passed, seemed to deign Jon with a nod of respect, and Jon had not been more afraid in his life. Their azure eyes seemed to pierce him with a power so dark, that Jon's very soul seemed to cringe in fear, as the claws of darkness sunk into him, and began to devour his very existence, until, he felt the light of blue, the light of winter encompass him, wash over him and purge all the darkness from him.

That was the last time he felt any of that darkness from the dead. And he was all the more glad for it.

It felt like months had went by, when he finally reached the gates of the castle. He had certainly seen enough moons past for this to hold true. The castle itself, had several high rising towers, and was big enough to to put Winterfell to shame many time over, and still have enough space to house the people of ten holdfasts. The very tips of the towers were dusted with a blanket of stark white snow, while the rest of the castle and grounds remained untouched by the snow.

There is magic at work, for certain; thought Jon, as he surveyed the castle.

After a few moments the portcullis of the castle was raised, and the door opened, and Jon could swear that he was encompassed by warmth of rushing wind as it did. Sentinel seemed to take that as an invitation to enter the castle.

The sturdy Elk had never led Jon wrong so he was content to see where this led him. Not that he could get off if he wanted to. Some sort of magic restrained him to the saddle, but only when he tried to get off. It was quite odd that he didn't get saddle sores or riding rashes on his thighs and calves.

The inside of the castle was much like the outside, incredibly sturdy, except it was made up of Stone that was cobalt in colour, with slight hints of milky-white.

Sentinel stopped and Jon somehow found himself dislodging from the saddle, for the first time in a very long time. His feet seemed to have a mind of their own, as it led him through the castle. Along the walls he noticed several paintings that looked exactly like some of the Starks from the Crypts of Winterfell. While others simply had the look with none of the coloring.

Their hair ranged from purple to blue, while their eyes ranged from gold to orange. A fair few of them had the look of an animal on their face. It wasn't too prominent, but it would range from whisker marks, sharper and more angular faces, slit-pupils, protruding canines, sharp angular ears, beak-like noses and hair that seemed to spike in every direction, oftentimes defying gravity, no matter the length.

Jon came upon the throne room. It was a great chamber of milky-white stone that was illuminated by azure blue flames. To Jon, it felt as if all the heat that he felt when he entered the castle had come from here. It wasn't like any heat he was accustomed to, yet at the same time it was comforting.

The throne high above the six long tables that were polished to a shine. The steps leading up to the throne was made of marble, that ranged in color, seven colors to be precise.

The Throne seemed to be made of silver and polished to a reflective shine. The throne had had seven protruding rods at the back of the chair with figureheads — that Jon couldn't quite make out — on top. Sitting on the throne was Brandon the builder. It was quite a shock to Jon, but he looked quite a bit like the statue from the winter chamber.

He had the long face of the Stark's, but his coloring was quite different. His eyes were a flat gold, with a concentric ring of black, that Jon could barely distinguish. His hair was black at the root, and purple at the rest of the way down, and it seemed to blend in almost seamlessly. It was cut into chin length, and parted down the middle, two bangs framing his face while the rest was collected together in a ponytail.

"Greetings, my name is Brandon Stark, Winter's King." said the man named Brandon, "and you are my prince."

* * *

 **A/N: So, a bunch of people were unhappy with how I portrayed Catelyn Stark. I guess I do hold some of the blame, I mean never really liked her character. But just for those who reminded me of the fact that she prayed for Jon, let me remind you she prayed that infant Jon would die, so that doesn't make her a bad person, just childish. Then she prayed that he would live, and promised to be his mother. That didn't really pan out. Still it really cements the fact that she is contradictory. If you were wondering why I don't like her, it's because she told Jon she hoped it was he who fell and mangled his body. Yeah I get she was grieving, but that was uncalled for, the kid was already doing her a favor by leaving, she didn't have to say that. She could of just glared at hmm while he said his goodbye's.**

 **Though I hope I have her some redemption this chapter.**

 **Also.. That bit about Ned being married to the assumed Ashara Dayne is totally fabricated on my part.**

 **Also I wanna say THANK YOU SO MUCH! for all the reviews, alerts and fav's. I mean a total of 40 reviews and almost 150 story alerts was definitely not what I expected when I wrote my first chapter, so thanks a ton! And may r'llor light your path, for the North is dark and full or terrors(I know how it's supposed to go)**

 **Finally I want to thank the person who point that shiz out about the greystarks and I'll defo edit that out.**


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